


Number Come Up

by gigantic



Category: Hip Hop RPF
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-01
Updated: 2002-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/pseuds/gigantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you seen that rain yet? It’s nasty out there.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Number Come Up

**Author's Note:**

> Embitca said, "Somebody should write Fifty wing!fic," and I thought, "Hmm, yeah." Originally, this wasn't supposed to be creepy. Inspired by [this picture](http://obsessivetendencies.net/newwords/lj/50cent01.jpg), and now with [a cover](http://obsessivetendencies.net/newwords/emcover.jpg) made by Megolas.

The first time Em saw them he’d been hot and irritable, tired and not really himself. The night had trickled on and on, and his body felt heavy and immobile. Fifty sat on the bed just to his right. Fifty stretched his arms and wondered aloud if he was making enough cash these days to afford a damn masseuse, and when Em opened his eyes, he thought he sensed the air in front of him ripple.

“Quit whining,” Em muttered, smile lopsided and watching the way the television against the wall kept wriggling.

Fifty looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Man, you don’t know. I could have some serious back problems, and you over there telling me to quit fucking whining.”

“Sure.”

Em’s head felt cloudy. Did he drink something? Did he drink too much? Did somebody slip him anything?

And the television wouldn’t stop moving. Em eyed it suspiciously, watching the air shift and the light wave as if he were looking at things through a layer of plastic wrap. He breathed slowly, calmly, and forced an arm out to lay it flat against -- against something to make the room just stop.

His hand touched--stroked something impeccably soft. Em stared vacantly at his fingers suspended in midair, feeling an object unseen. Beyond that the world had stopped rolling; existing like a picture with unusual raised bumps and curves that grazed his knuckles like text in a storybook. Like brail.

Em glided his palm to the right, over softness and making a mess of it, changing the direction of a series of individuals like a room with shag carpeting, or feathers. He slid the hand until he reached Fifty’s back and marveled silently when he connected to smooth skin.

Fifty didn’t breathe.

Em dragged his fingers down Fifty’s spine. Reaching the waistband of cotton pants, Em forced himself to look away. This time he saw ripples over the closet and thought briefly about outlines and invisible cars.

“What the fuck are you?” He asked, breathless and scratched his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Fifty stood up. He whispered, “Sleep, man,” without looking over his shoulder again.

Em’s eyelids fluttered and shut.

;;

In the morning, Em didn't remember anything past ending a great show. His head throbbed, so he ordered room service and downed a couple aspirin with his orange juice.

He added a pair of red sunglasses and a red hat to his wardrobe before he left for the day. His car was already waiting when he got downstairs.

That night, just before the show started, the tech crew had to adjust the microphone frequencies last minute. Em squeezed the muscles at the back of his neck and huffed impatiently.

Fifty came up on Em’s left, reaching around to nudge Em’s fingers away and replace them with his own. A chill slid through Em's spine at the contact. Fifty’s arm dropped when the manager held out a couple microphones, and Em turned to blink at him.

“You know, for luck,” Fifty said.

On stage, the hype bit finished and introduction music began.

;;

Some guy in a suit behind Em said, “Have you seen that rain yet? It’s nasty out there.”

Em had this stupid stress ball in his pocket that he found in one of the drawers that morning. He had gone to put one of his notebooks away in the hotel room nightstand and the ball was sitting right next to the bible. Em held his hand in his pocket, crushed the ball with his fingers. Of course it would rain his first day off probation. Yeah, real fucking lucky.

His phone vibrated in his other pocket as he stepped off the elevator. He answered it and walked down the hallway.

“Hey, Daddy,” Hailie said immediately. Em could hear Kim saying things in the background, to which Hailie answered, “No, I put it on the couch.” She came back to Em. “Mommy thought I lost the remote control.”

“So, you’re up now? Mom said you were still asleep when I called earlier.” Em got to the end of the hall and stood outside. He leaned against the wall instead of knocking on a door.

Hailie chewed into the receiver, her crunches filtering through the line. “Yeah, I’m watching TV now and eating cereal.”

“What’re you watching? Cartoons?”

“Mhm, only. They’re not that funny today.”

Em smiled. “You just have to keep watching until a good one comes on.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” she said, voice rising towards the end of the sentence, indignant. Em propped a foot against the wall as well, chuckled. “Daddy, don’t you know Marquise? Are you gonna see him today?”

“Mmm, maybe.”

Hailie continued to crunch. “I still have his picture he drew last time -- of the angel. Tell him for me, yeah?”

“Of what, baby?”

“The angel. Well, he said they weren’t really angels, but I think they look like them. He drew one so I could know when I see one.”

“How does he know if you’re gonna see one?”

“I don’t know. Just tell him I have it still, okay?”

“Sure, baby.” Em took off his hat and wiped his wrist over his forehead. “I have to go, but I’ll call you later, all right? No, you know what, call me after you have lunch.”

She reminded him to tell Marquise once more and said her goodbyes. Em hid his cellphone in his pocket, next to the little stress ball he’d forgotten about over the course of a few minutes. He squeezed it tightly and then knocked on the door to his left.

Marquise let him in, opening the door just barely to see who he was, and then widening it.

“What’re you doing answering the door?” Em asked, snatching the kid’s bandana off his head.

Em held it out his reach, and Marquise grabbed over his head for it unsuccessfully. “My dad sent me,” he said once Em gave it back. “He sent a message, too,” Marquise punched Em in the thigh and narrowed his eyes at him. “You late, punk.”

“Punk?”

Fifty came out of the other room, saying, “That’s the radio version.”

Marquise grinned, giving his endeavors at retying his scarf a pause. “Wanna hear the regular--”

“Boy!” Fifty snatched the bandana. He balled it up and tossed it across the room. “Go over there and play with something that belongs to you.”

Marquise frowned at the scarf on the floor. He turned back to Em and cupped his hand over his mouth so that Fifty couldn’t see his lips. He motioned for Em to lean closer and didn’t whisper anyway. “He just mad ‘cause I finally told him that people liked me better. He’s upset; go easy on him.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fifty said, bending low and pretending to get Marquise in the stomach a couple times. Marquise cringed and vocalized his pain, obligingly. “Keep talking like that and you'll be one broke down boss.”

The hits turned into tickles. Marquise fell onto his back, yelling for his release.

“That’s what I thought.” Fifty let go eventually.

He straightened up, clapped a hand to Em’s shoulder and then jogged back into the other room. Em began to follow but caught sight Marquise grabbing some papers on the floor and thought about Hailie.

“He thinks he’s running things,” Marquise said. He collected the papers, arranging them in a neat stack. “I taught him everything though.”

“I’m sure, man.” Em sat down in a chair near the front door. “Hey, Hailie wanted me to tell you that she still has one of your drawings.”

“Yeah? Which one?”

“An angel thing? What you teaching my daughter, little man?”

Marquise got back to tying his scarf again. “Nothin’. Just showing her some stuff.”

“For what?”

He dipped his head to tie the back, and then looked dropped his hands to his lap, looking at Em. “ Just, you know. Just 'cause.”

Em gnawed his lip thoughtfully. Fifty leaned out of the other room again. He said, “Ay, this stuff ain’t never getting done without your grand approval.”

;; 

He had to do a few interviews in New York for some magazines. Jimmy had advised him, as he did after every album had been out for months, to keep his face out there. Even if it was one or two things here and there, mostly talking about his other projects -- as long as he kept his face around for people to see, it would be good for business. They booked a private jet for the flight out.

The first thing he said when he boarded the jet was, “Anybody wake me up, and I’ll bite off your goddamn hand.”

He spent most of the flight sleeping. He wasn’t startled awake until the plane lurched and some girl screamed. Paul was yelling, “Hey--HEY! Sit the fuck down.”

Em was half asleep but managed to use the wall as an anchor. He slid along, making his way to the front area fairly easy. The door for the lavatory caught him in the side, and he barely felt it because his mind was in other places.

Something was wrong.

The turbulence did not ease. He lost his balance as he reached the others and rested on his knees. Above him, Paul said, “Em. Hey, Em--damnit, somebody get him strapped in or something!”

There was arguing back and forth. Then oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling, and the seatbelts didn’t even matter.

;; 

He didn’t remember much.

He remembered screams, fire, and water. He remembered excruciatingly intense lights, unfamiliar voices, and Hailie pawing his cheeks and crying. He remembered Kim, Nate, Fifty, Dre, Obie, Proof, Bizarre, and the others. He remembered asking not to see his mother.

He remembered the doctors saying that he could go home. He didn’t remember answering the door, but he had a sneaking suspicion that there were other people in the house.

He remembered thinking, “I’m only sleeping,” and being afraid that it wasn’t true.

;;

His back burned, seared. Em curled his back, and the muscles felt as if someone had taken a blunt knife and slashed the skin at either side of his spine. He gritted his teeth, burying his face into pillows and yelling as loud as possible. The sheets under him were wet and sticky. Whether with sweat or blood, he couldn’t tell and did his best to try not to.

Fifty entered his bedroom on a Wednesday, carrying a tray that held a hot bowl of soup, and a fresh glass of water. He sat it on the dresser next to the bed and waited.

“I’m dying,” Em said and maybe hoped for a minute that it were true.

“Nah,” Fifty whispered, grinning weakly. He reached out to touch Em’s chest. Em felt his own heartbeat pump beneath his ribcage. “You’re all there.”

The skin of his back flashed hot again, feeling like the blood was boiling up under flesh. He winced, biting hard on his lip and turning over. He thought he could almost hear the sizzle and pop of burning blood.

“Fuck.” He thrust a fist into the mattress repeatedly. “Fuck--shit.”

Unexpectedly, Em felt a hand rub the small of his back, trailing slowly upward traverse his spine. The pain numbed just barely, a layer of cool spreading like a million spiders’ legs throughout his veins.

“You’re okay, man,” Fifty said. Em wondered if it was possible to simply give up.

He stayed in that room, in his bed, for several days. Fifty showed a couple other times, and Em thought about asking him if he was making extra trips, spending extra money to make the extra stops. It took him a while to get around to it, because whenever Fifty was there, he touched Em’s back and some of the burning would dissipate. Em would forget most anything else, startled by infinite sensation of feeling--however marginally--better.

After he did finally ask, Fifty stroked a thumb across the back of Em’s neck and pushed his face in close to Em’s ear.

“I just need my luck,” he said, chuckling lightly.

Em shivered despite the sweat on his brow. He shifted a little, angled so that he could turn and face Fifty without really twisting too much. Fifty’s mouth brushed the skin below Em’s ear as Em moved, and they both hesitated. Fifty’s fingers twitched and then pressed into Em’s neck, the slightest pressure. Em cocked his head, and Fifty brushed his lips over Em’s own, ghosts of actual kisses, until Em scratched at Fifty’s belt and licked tentatively at Fifty’s mouth.

Fifty kept at least one hand at the back of Em’s neck almost the entire time, using whichever one was free to touch him freely everywhere else. Em rolled onto his shoulder in order to better accommodate the situation without lying on his back. Fifty crawled onto the bed as much as possible, all bent knees and uncomfortable holding positions, but never leaving Em alone for very long.

Fifty touched. He grazed soft skin on the neck, the arch down to shoulder, to chest and pausing to feel the steady heartbeat there. Over concave stomach, connecting to sweat-damp hip and then was pushing his hand inside to everything hidden.

Em moaned, bringing his hips forward and breaking kisses to breathe. Warm gusts of air fanned out over Fifty’s lips, and Em felt hot at each tiny point on his body, unable to say or do more than exist. Fifty rubbed at his neck, and said, “Hey, hey.”

Em nodded and felt and came with his eyes closed. When he opened them, everything beyond Fifty swayed and rippled miraculously. Em groaned, closed his eyes again, and focused on exhaling.

;;

The first time Em realized what they were--expansive wings, large and transparent but definitely there like all the best illusions, deceptively white when you caught them at a glance--was a week later, soon after the skin at his back crackled and hissed, capillaries cauterizing. He had spent most of the morning thrashing and hollering, pleading for death, for relief, for whatever he could think of. Fifty walked in again after most of the commotion had concluded, Em’s pain now a dull throb and the irritating feeling that even with all of that, he still wasn’t sealed. He still felt like an open gash, like something was there that shouldn’t be and wasn’t before.

Fifty walked in, and Em saw the swelling outline all at once. He saw the wings and realized a second later than instantly what they were.

He realized what they were after he realized he had some of his own.

“What--what are they?” And Em knew. He knew but it didn’t mean that he had to believe it.

Fifty never frowned. He never frowned in the angry way a lot of people did but rather softened something in his eyes, curled his lips and looked disappointed like a child when you don’t take him to the park or buy the ice cream like you had promised.

He narrowed his eyes a little, moving closer to the bed. He said, “I don’t know. I can’t explain it, you know?”

Em spoke through clenched teeth. “Try, man. Try real fucking hard.”

He pushed himself up and rested on the headboard, blinking and grimacing. He thought about luck. He thought about the four other people on that jet, about how he remembered the doctor telling him he was the only one that survived. And Hailie still had Marquise’s fucking drawing, and Fifty touched Em before every stage show because he was lucky.

Fifty stood at the side of the bed. He grabbed Em’s hand and slowly dragged his fingers to nine different places on his body, starting with a welt on his back, near the shoulder and ending with the indentation on his cheek.

Fifty let go of Em’s hand. He looked at the floor.

Em brought the same hand to one of the wings, running his fingers along the edge and not thinking about how he might be able to do this with his own.

“I wasn’t supposed to live,” Fifty said, and Em nodded because he knew.

Fifty said, “You weren’t...” And Em knew that too.


End file.
